


More of Whatever You Have

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: First Time, Humor, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook





	More of Whatever You Have

_**More of Whatever You Have**_  
 **Title:** More of Whatever You Have  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Kirk/Spock  
 **Time Frame:** TOS

  
 __

MUDD: Actually, you see, it's a relatively harmless drug.  
EVE: Harmless!    
MUDD: Well, what it does is give you more of whatever you have.  
(Episode 1x6, Mudd's Women)

"I'm fine, Bones," Kirk says from the captain's chair.

But McCoy continues to hover, wielding a medical scanner and a suspicious expression. "I'll never understand why you have so much trouble admitting you could do with a bit of rest."

"Why, Bones, I certainly _can_ admit it . . . when I am actually _tired_ , of course. Which isn't n—" Kirk interrupts himself with a yawn "—now. Well, don't look at me like that—you were the one talking about exhaustion. They say that makes you yawn, don't they?"

"They don't," McCoy says flatly. "That's when you're talking about _yawning_."

"I see. Yawning. So, talking about yawning makes one more disposed to yawning oneself, is that what you're saying? And, I'll wager, even _thinking_ about yawning could potentially cause one to yawn whether or not a yawn was in the cards at all, so to speak." He blinks at McCoy, waiting.

McCoy's face tenses, quivers. He glares his way through it valiantly.

"Yawn got your tongue, Bones?"

Sulu pipes up: "Ready to leave orbit, sir."

"Half speed, helmsman."

"Point five-oh."

McCoy's still grumbling.

"Didn't quite catch that, doctor."

"I _said_ you're more difficult than a—"

"Say Bones," Kirk interrupts, "I don't suppose you have any _patients_ to attend to, or . . . ?"

" _You're_ a patient," McCoy says, in a tone that brooks no argument, which can only mean that Kirk will argue to the death.

"All right, all right." Kirk swivels back to him. "I'm fine though, really. Yes . . . I _am_ a little tired after this last mission, but I'm allowed that, aren't I? Certainly you know I wouldn't be here if I doubted my ability to function."

McCoy sighs. "I know. But—"

"B-ut . . . ?"

"— _Look_. You _could_ use some downtime, can you admit that, at least? Try to lay off the games of strategy with Spock while you're off duty. Goodness knows we get enough of those on the clock . . ."

Kirk shakes his head. "That's just _you_ and Spock, I'm afraid." Glances over to Spock, catches his eye and smiles. And Spock hadn't been eavesdropping, exactly; he'd just overheard them in addition to monitoring the ship's departure from the planet. He was more than capable of multitasking.

". . . read a book, ease up on those elaborate speeches you call captain's logs—it isn't Shakespeare, you know . . ."

Kirk holds up a hand. "I think I get the picture, thank you." Spock watches him watching the stars wheeling ahead. He does look more worn than usual.

"Spend some time with the crew," McCoy suggests. "Do ya good, and it's not bad for morale, either. Yes . . . why don't you look up old, what's-his-name, uh, Otwell . . . or Allen down in engineering, he was in your class, wasn’t he? And I'm sure Yeoman Rand wouldn't object to a visit from the captain . . ."

"Yes, Janice . . . " Kirk brightens, then frowns. "Haven't seen her in awhile, actually."

McCoy shrugs.

Spock reasons that the sensors will be fine without him for now and crosses to the captain's chair. "If I may make a suggestion, sir."

Kirk brightens again. "But of course, Mr Spock."

"You are indeed exhibiting signs of weariness." Kirk raises his eyebrows. "You have been, approximately, since we took the ambassador onboard."

Kirk sighs. He can't argue with that. "Recommendation?"

"As the doctor says, captain. Rest."

Kirk laughs while McCoy humphs, and Spock wonders if there's anything he could ever say that McCoy _wouldn't_ humph at.

"Spock's right, Jim," McCoy says unhappily.

"I've got no chance with the two of you pitted against _me_ rather than one another, have I?" Kirk stands, tugs his shirt down. "Very well then. Off I go. I've some sleeping pills in my quarters still, I think. Sulu, you have the conn. Set course for Starbase 22."

"Course locked in, sir."

Kirk catches Spock's eye again on his way back to the lift. "Spock?"

Spock nods, replaces him in the captain's chair.

*

Scott had messaged the bridge after coming out of warp, and the uncertain caliber to his voice had convinced Spock to head down to engineering himself. He's rounding a corner on one of the lower decks when he sees it.

What he sees is the captain, of course, but something is undeniably different. Like seeing an unfocused picture suddenly snap into perfect, captivating clarity. Spock seems to hear a warning chime in the recesses of his mind . . .

"Something the matter, Spock?"

The way Kirk says his name is musical. The lingering sibilant break between the S and the rest of it, the way Kirk somehow manages to make a mere word trail off into possibilities.

"Captain," Spock says, then has to clear his throat. "Captain. You are not asleep."

Kirk chuckles, gets dizzyingly closer. Kirk has such a covertly physical way of commanding attention, and Spock is nothing if not attentive. Spock pays attention, now. "No indeed." Spock waits, but Kirk doesn't say anything more. He just blinks slowly and wets his lips rather unnecessarily and Spock finds himself studying the way their hue contrasts ever so slightly with the rest of his skin . . .

"You need rest," Spock says.

Kirk chuckles again, slips a friendly arm around Spock's shoulders and leans into him, looks up at him with eyelashes in the way, and Kirk's eyes are more brilliant than they had been, more metallically flecked and more focused on him. This is clearly the source of Spock's seeming inability to function.

"Fine, fine," Kirk says, pushing off of Spock and leaving him chilled. "You win. But perhaps you'd better tuck me in just to make sure I stay put." Kirk yawns and indulges in a luxurious stretch which affects Spock's heart rate most disturbingly.

Spock opens his mouth, sure he'd been about to say something. Nothing comes out.

Kirk smiles and pats Spock's arm. "Another time then, eh?" Turns on his heel nimbly and saunters on his way. Spock finds himself stalled there until a passing crewmember reminds him of his purpose and he heads warily down to engineering.

*

"Spock!"

Spock braces himself, then turns in the captain's chair. "Doctor."

"Spock," McCoy repeats, approaches with a faraway look. "I've just had the most interesting experience. Fascinating, you might say . . ."

"Explain."

"I've . . ." He lowers his voice. "Look, maybe you'd better just come with me. I just had quite the chat with Lt Rosin."

Spock waits for elaboration. When nothing but McCoy's bemusement seems forthcoming he turns back to the viewscreen. "Ahead warp factor two, Mr Sulu."

McCoy's emitting some variety of growl from behind him. "It's the _captain_ , Spock."

Spock stands, takes McCoy aside. "Report."

McCoy's shifty-eyed. "I'd rather not say on the _bridge_ , Mr Spock. Now are you coming along or what?"

"Of course. It is the captain."

"Well good," McCoy says. "Judging by some of the things Rosin was nattering on about, well, let's just say I wouldn't mind having an extra set of logic along."

"Lead on then, doctor," Spock says, moves to the helm to check the panel before following McCoy to the lift. "Sulu?"

"Sir."

*

It's no secret that Kirk has a certain effect on women, but the situation in rec room three is a bit unprecedented.

Kirk holds court in the corner with three giggling specimens and a table littered with drinks. He's got his arm around a science officer and his eye on a googly-eyed yeoman while a third rubs his shoulders and laughs at everything he says. The two male crewmen playing checkers in the corner look on in jealousy or, in Ensign Bento's case, something of the googly-eyed variety.

Spock finds it most inconvenient. He stalks up to Kirk's table. "That is quite enough, ladies. I think you will find that we all have work to attend to." The girls scatter reluctantly.

Kirk pouts a little, then locks onto Spock with eyes made of magnet. "We have matters to attend to? You and I?"

But Spock can't remember what he'd meant to say, so he just remains there while Kirk goes all smiley at him.

"It's hard to conceive it," Kirk continues, "that you'd throw away romance . . ."

McCoy sidles up, just a distant blue blur on the edge of Spock's awareness. He glances between them in agitation.

"Spock? Spock! Snap out of it, man!" Gives Spock a shove.

Spock blinks, keeps his eyes closed for a moment to collect himself. When he opens them again Kirk is still smiling with the fury of a thousand suns. Spock still can't find his voice.

McCoy looks exasperatedly from one to the other, then throws his hands up. "Sick bay it is!" Grabs Spock by the arm and Kirk by the collar and drags them away.

*

"Really, gentleman, I don't see the need for—"

" _Allll_ right, Jim," McCoy says, one leading arm around Kirk's shoulders. "I'm sure. Now if you'll just step over to the medical scanner, here—"

Kirk shakes him off. "There's no _need_ , Bones," Kirk spits, then looks immediately remorseful. "I'm fine," he says softly.

"Uh huh. A little too fine, if you ask me. Just let me—scan—dammit, hold _still_ Jim!"

Kirk escapes again. "Why, I'll be happy to, doctor. If you'll just tell me what this is all about. Sound fair?"

McCoy simmers at him, then gestures to Spock, irritated. "You tell 'im, Spock."

Kirk looks to Spock, and Spock forgets to breathe for a moment.

"Captain," Spock says, pleased with the evenness of his tone in the face of Kirk's face. "You are behaving most strangely."

Kirk frowns. "Am I? I hadn't noticed. I . . . took some _rest_ —I believe you'll remember coercing me into it, Dr McCoy—and, well. I'm rested, now. Satisfied? Or is it some medical crime of yesteryear to be pleasantly refreshed after a good night's sleep?"

McCoy huffs. "Well you didn't take sleeping pills, that's for sure. You'd be out cold, still."

By now Spock's mind is working loudly enough to drown out Kirk's glowiness. "Not sleeping pills . . ." McCoy's startled by his sudden input. "Not sleeping pills," Spock repeats. "What else could produce these symptoms?"

"What _symptoms_? Symptoms of philandering and general impishness?" McCoy says, impatient with being out of the loop.

"No, doctor."

"Well what then?" McCoy snaps.

Kirk watches them with interest.

"The Venus drug," Spock says.

Kirk looks so pleased with him. Spock ignores it as best he can. Which is to say, not at all.

"What! How would that even . . . how _could_ . . ." McCoy stops to think about it. "Those girls were awfully affectionate, weren't they. Huh. I suppose old Harry must've left some behind in his haste."

"Or on purpose, doctor," Spock points out.

"You may be right," McCoy allows. "It does seem like the sort of thing he'd do, just to mess with us in some kind of parting shot . . ."

"From what we know, it enhances the user's most attractive qualities, making them almost supernaturally . . . appealing."

"You mean it inspires lust, Mr Spock."

"That would be a logical supposition, doctor."

Kirk speaks up. He's gleaming, somehow. "How long 'til it wears off, Bones?" he says quietly. "Do you have any idea?"

McCoy shrugs. "Well, who's to say? We didn't even know about it with Mudd's girls for the majority of the time they were here, and well, quite honestly I wasn't at my most professional when they _were_ here . . . "

"Indeed," Spock says.

McCoy glares at him. "I'm a human man, Spock! I can't do anything about it. And I might add that _you_ can't do anything about your own human heritage, either . . . "

Kirk's amusement means crinkled eyes and sly stretching mouth. Spock overheats for a moment.

"Actually," Spock says, "I can do something about it, and in fact I choose to do so."

"Because your highly advanced Vulcan repression is so healthy, is it? What kind of _doctors_ do you have on your home planet, anyway?"

Kirk holds up his hands, oddly graceful. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please. This will get us nowhere. Believe me, I've _watched_ it get us nowhere for . . . oh, _years_ now, I'd say."

"Sorry, Jim," McCoy grumbles.

Spock doesn't say anything.

Kirk rubs his hands together. " _Now_ then. The question, of course, is . . . what are we going to do about it?"

Spock addresses McCoy, it being the safer option. "Confining the captain to quarters should be sufficient."

Kirk steps so near to Spock, then—this wave of human heat that seems to reach out and dismantle him. Says, soft, "So confine me, Mr Spock."

McCoy monitors their staring contest for a minute before sighing and taking Kirk by the arm. "Confined to quarters it is, then. Starting immediately."

*

Spock has never particularly enjoyed assuming command. Even less enjoyable was sitting in the captain's chair, without sensors and scanners and various instruments at his disposal. There was no computer to peruse and occupy himself with, no mundane tasks to tend to between missions. From the captain's chair there was only the ordered flurry of activity from the bridge crew and the occasional passing yeoman. There was only this, and the stars ahead. And the ghost of James T. Kirk.

Kirk seemed to haunt the bridge no matter his whereabouts. Or at least the lack of him was always noticeable, like the bass line dropping out of a piece of music without warning, leaving the rest of the treble voices adrift without their anchor.

More than this, though, Spock was haunted by the surely impossible lingering heat of the chair, of the controls Kirk had touched, of Kirk's scent and of his smile.

Spock, who normally cultivated multiple avenues of thought just to keep from boredom when he was in command, now found it terribly challenging to think very much past Kirk's smile and heat and memory, and was it even possible for Kirk to exercise such control over him even at a distance? The drugs were strong, clearly, but . . .

Spock barely makes the decision—he just finds himself standing and saying, "Sulu, you have the conn."

" _Again_ , sir—?" Sulu gets a look at Spock's face. "Yessir."

Spock hastens to the turbolift, well aware of the eyes of bewildered technicians along the way.

*

"Spock," Kirk says from his desk. "What a surprise." He stands and smiles rather dazzlingly at him. Spock's heart is beating too fast—with the impulsiveness of his own actions, with the irresponsibility of leaving his post like this. Certainly not with Kirk's death-defying focus on him.

"Captain. You are not wearing your uniform."

"Why should I? I'm off duty, aren't I?" Kirk's approaching all in black, tight undershirt and uniform trousers and bare feet. His skin seems to glow in contrast. "But you aren't yet, if I'm not mistaken."

Spock had meant to say something, really he had, but all that comes out is a sort of 'unf.'

"Tell me, Spock—" The way he _says_ that . . . "—did you need something from me?" Kirk is radiating, now.

"No."

Kirk's soft-focus façade fractures for the briefest of moments before he takes Spock's hand and unbalances him all over again. Says, sotto voce, "Why haven't you seen it?"

"Captain, I am at something of a loss to—" The back of Kirk's other hand brushes Spock's jaw. "What are you—"

"I think you know," he murmurs, gets closer and disentangles their fingers to trail his hand up Spock's arm, stilling him. Kirk's other hand now rests gingerly at the nape of Spock neck and Spock's startled into speechlessness by his warmth, isn't prepared for it when Kirk nuzzles his nose against Spock's cheek, leaves tiny kisses across Spock's jaw until it's their mouths pressing together in such a way that neither one of them can mistake it for anything less than a kiss.

Kirk untucks Spock's shirt enough to slide hands underneath, swallows Spock's unintentional gasp and lets fingertips roam over hip to back to clutching him closer. Spock finds that his own hands have slid up Kirk's front, hot through the thin layer of clothing, Kirk's chest heaving with effort — he moans into Spock's mouth.

"Mm, let's get you out of this, shall we?" Kirk tugs on Spock's uniform shirt a bit violently.

"Captain, I highly doubt that that is going to—" The blue fabric rips almost instantly. "That was efficient."

Kirk launches a new attack on Spock's mouth with his, and it is indeed an attack, now—Kirk's stubborn tongue demanding entry into Spock's mouth, the light but definite nip to Spock's upper lip and the way Kirk groans when Spock lets their tongues tangle and sucks and pulls Kirk flush against him by the hip.

Kirk breaks the kiss on a breathless laugh, glitters at Spock and morphs his every muscle into an invitation, lets himself fall backwards and Spock lets himself be led.

Kirk turns it into something spinning, catches Spock's wrist and slams it against the nearest wall along with the rest of him, smiles and closes in to kiss slowly down Spock's neck—keeping Spock there so forcefully while his lips nudge over Spock's skin, sensual and restrained. A strangled sound escapes Spock's throat and Kirk echoes it, pleased, glancing up at him with such mischief.

Kirk backs up enough to run his hands possessively up and down Spock's torso, then yanks on the hem of the black undershirt.

"We're not quite done here, are we?" he says, and before Spock can respond Kirk's pulled his own shirt over his head and is pushing Spock's out of the way without any apparent regard for limbs or ears or the unyielding collar. And when Kirk zooms in to kiss him again it's amid a whirl of disorientation.

Soft skin's so soft and prominent, strung somehow through every compulsion for roughness. The soft brush of their chests, the soft grace of Kirk's hands on him, Kirk's mouth . . .

Kirk's mouth meanders, across jaw to eartip and licking down the side of Spock's neck, just along the tendon—sucking at the juncture of neck and shoulder while his hands feel down Spock's arms and twine their fingers gently like he _knows_ , and Spock's got to close his eyes to process this simple sensation, this hovering on a precipice of pure primal desires.

A shuffle of cloth as Kirk slides down Spock's body, disheveled hair tickling in a decidedly non-ticklish manner against Spock's stomach that surprises a groan out of him. Kirk laughs, presses one hand against the front of Spock's trousers, shoots a look up at him that can't be analyzed—facets of lust and delight and vulnerability and challenge, but mostly it's just brilliantly Kirk.

Kirk works Spock's trousers open in such a way that ensures maximum friction, press of the material and superheated shock of Kirk's busy fingers before they close too tantalizingly lightly around the base of his cock.

"Huh," Kirk reflects.

Spock has at least retained the presence of mind to raise an eyebrow.

"Fascinating," Kirk mutters, but before Spock can even ask Kirk's quite unable to speak at all. And surely the Venus drug has made Kirk especially adept at this—he takes Spock into his mouth so easily, wet and pulsing with languid human heartbeat, the play of hot and cold over the sensitive skin. Kirk goes deep, then sucks gently on the upstroke and lets the tip of his cock rest on plush slickened lips, licks rather expertly along the slit and acrobatically around to the brain-canceling spot just under the head. Doesn’t look at Spock, downward sweep of eyelashes and the unhurried care he takes with lips and tongue while the rest of him holds still—sweat at his temple that darkens his hair and the lovely sculpted way his shoulders contort to accommodate his position.

Spock feels weighed down by the ache in his groin, the ache through his blood—his skin longs for contact and his fingertips itch to touch, but he's too breathless with the tragic/joyful lump in his chest to move a muscle.

Kirk doesn't seem to be in such a hurry, anymore, taking his time running his mouth suckingly up and down Spock's shaft while one hand grips the base and strokes, his free hand on Spock's hip, as if Spock could or would escape him.

And just when Spock's finally surrendered himself to it, body and soul, Kirk remembers urgency again—sudden swirling suction encasing his cock that knocks the wind out of him. Subsequent swift strokes up and down and Kirk's head moving increasingly faster, purposeful, the blinding feeling of Kirk's tongue flat and firm, then darting teasingly, then harder then slower, then more then less, and the _heat_ of it, and then Spock simply can't take it anymore, and he gives in to the instinct that’s clamoring in the back of his mind.

Kirk laughs when Spock lifts him easily to his feet, _mm_ 's and licks his lips when Spock's got him pinned to the bed with wrists above his head and hips grinding together, there with his tanned chest heaving and his eyes so alive. He looks at once humanly and artificially divine.

Kirk's panting mouth quirks, accompanied by a needy roll of his hips. The smug cast to his face and his futile struggle against Spock's grip, and most especially his voice uttering, "Spock . . ." so intimately — the combination is much too potent for Spock to ignore. It would be illogical to ignore this, if only because he is unable to.

Spock opens Kirk's fly enough to touch skin, wraps his hand around the fullness of Kirk's cock and is immediately captivated by Kirk's expression — head thrown back and eyes scrunched shut.

"Your hands are . . . oh, just . . . yes like that . . ."

Spock's instincts scream at him to merge, bond, please, possess—he settles better atop Kirk, cocks bumping excitingly, and Kirk gasps and flashes a hungry look at him, arcs up into the friction as much as he can. Spock thrusts back and Kirk's whole body tenses and relaxes. He strains against Spock's grip on his wrists, strains for a brief clinging clash of mouths as they begin to move.

They fall into a rhythm by some unspoken agreement, Kirk's tiny murmurs growing ever more frantic and his hips ever more restless — Spock has to balance rather precariously to wrap his hand around both their cocks, focusing every movement down to one purposeful repetition.

"That's it," Kirk gasps. " _That's it_ , yes just, just keep doing that, would you? Yes-just-do-that, just more, just . . . _Spock_ . . ."

Instead of some logical calculation of how much more for how much longer would be ideal, Spock is ruled by the siren quality to Kirk's voice, compelled by his own building pleasure and hot and cold and Kirk finally slipping his hands free to clutch at Spock painfully, drawing Spock's head down to crush their foreheads together and speaking desperate unhearable words against Spock's lips between every labored breath.

Spock closes his eyes, dizzy with sensation, thrusts harder and Kirk matches it and whispers encouragements until Spock finally finds release with an overwhelming onslaught of feeling which, oddly enough, he doesn't ever want to end.

But Kirk is still writhing beneath him. Spock kisses his neck, tasting salt and heat while Kirk's heavy breathing echoes all around them. Spock can't stop watching him—wanton-familiar-human-his—gives Kirk's begging cock the last few relentless pulls it needs until he's spilled between them with a choked-off gasp, eyes closing tight, then fluttering, then seeking Spock out hazily, and it's that look alone reels Spock in for a kiss.

*

Spock is hunched over the science station when the lift doors open in the background.

"Captain!" Uhura says.

By the time Spock's turned around Kirk is already settled in the captain's chair, his presence no less bewitching than before. Spock goes to his side and keeps himself perfectly still once there, but his heartbeat strives to match the frantic frequency of chirps and whirs and whistles on the bridge.

"Captain," he says under his breath, "are you quite sure you are fit for duty?"

"But of course, Mr Spock," Kirk says, glancing up at him and initiating a series of rather explicit flashbacks that steal Spock's breath. Kirk doesn't look away to say, needlessly, "Maintain course, Mr Sulu."

"Aye, captain."

Spock shakes his head to clear it, but when he meets Kirk's eyes again he's instantly subdued by their greenish smirk. "Forgive me, captain, but you do not appear to be particularly . . . rested."

"Oh, I am . . . terribly well-rested. Spock." He really ought to tone that smirk down.

"Mm. Perhaps, sir, it would be prudent to visit sickbay before—"

"Do you know, Mr Spock—I don't believe McCoy ever _did_ properly test me for the drug . . . in fact," he muses, "one might even surmise that I never _was_ under the influence of anything—there's no proof, after all. What would you say the probability of that is, I wonder?"

Spock blinks.

"Ah well," Kirk continues. "I'll leave the speculation up to you, of course. But, drugs or not, there's just no excuse for some of the things I've done. I'd imagine some of them were . . . quite unforgivable."

Spock processes this. At length, he says, "I find that conclusion to be most inaccurate."

Kirk starts to smile. "Oh?"

"Due to the lack of factual evidence, of course."

"Of course, Mr Spock."

Another long pause, and then Spock says, "I must say that that was an exceedingly clever gamble."

Kirk frowns. "But . . . not a very logical one, in your estimation?"

"I would not go quite that far, captain."

Kirk looks sidelong at him, so self-satisfied, and Spock allows himself the briefest of smiles in return.

*


End file.
